The King of the Golden River by John Ruskin (namjoon book recommendations TXT) 📕

CHAPTER III

HOW MR. HANS SET OFF ON AN EXPEDITION TO THE GOLDEN RIVER, AND

HOW HE PROSPERED THEREIN

 

The King of the Golden River had hardly made the extraordinary

exit related in the last chapter, before Hans and Schwartz came

roaring into the house very savagely drunk. The discovery of

the total loss of their last piece of plate had the effect of

sobering them just enough to enable them to stand over Gluck,

beating him very steadily for a quarter of an hour; at the

expiration of which period they dropped into a couple of chairs

and requested to know what he had got to say for himself. Gluck

told them his story, of which, of course, they did not believe a

word. They beat him again, till their arms were tired, and

staggered to bed. In the morning, however, the steadiness with

which he adhered to his story obtained him some degree of

credence; the immediate consequence of which was that the two

brothers, after wrangling a long time on the knotty question,

which of them should try his fortune first, drew their swords and

began fighting. The noise of the fray alarmed the neighbors,

who, finding they could not pacify the combatants, sent for the

constable.

 

Hans, on hearing this, contrived to escape, and hid himself; but

Schwartz was taken before the magistrate, fined for breaking the

peace, and, having drunk out his last penny the evening before,

was thrown into prison till he should pay.

 

When Hans heard this, he was much delighted, and determined to

set out immediately for the Golden River. How to get the holy

water was the question. He went to the priest, but the priest

could not give any holy water to so abandoned a character. So

Hans went to vespers in the evening for the first time in his

life and, under pretense of crossing himself, stole a cupful and

returned home in triumph.

 

Next morning he got up before the sun rose, put the holy water

into a strong flask, and two bottles of wine and some meat in a

basket, slung them over his back, took his alpine staff in his

hand, and set off for the mountains.

 

On his way out of the town he had to pass the prison, and as he

looked in at the windows, whom should he see but Schwartz

himself peeping out of the bars and looking very disconsolate.

 

“Good morning, brother,” said Hans; “have you any message for the

King of the Golden River?”

 

Schwartz gnashed his teeth with rage and shook the bars with all

his strength, but Hans only laughed at him and, advising him to

make himself comfortable till he came back again, shouldered his

basket, shook the bottle of holy water in Schwartz’s face till

it frothed again, and marched off in the highest spirits in the

world.

 

It was indeed a morning that might have made anyone happy, even

with no Golden River to seek for. Level lines of dewy mist lay

stretched along the valley, out of which rose the massy

mountains, their lower cliffs in pale gray shadow, hardly

distinguishable from the floating vapor but gradually ascending

till they caught the sunlight, which ran in sharp touches of

ruddy color along the angular crags, and pierced, in long, level

rays, through their fringes of spearlike pine. Far above shot up

red, splintered masses of castellated rock, jagged and shivered

into myriads of fantastic forms, with here and there a streak of

sunlit snow traced down their chasms like a line of forked

lightning; and far beyond and far above all these, fainter than

the morning cloud but purer and changeless, slept, in the blue

sky, the utmost peaks of the eternal snow.

 

The Golden River, which sprang from one of the lower and snowless

elevations, was now nearly in shadow—all but the uppermost jets

of spray, which rose like slow smoke above the undulating line of

the cataract and floated away in feeble wreaths upon the morning

wind.

 

On this object, and on this alone, Hans’s eyes and thoughts were

fixed. Forgetting the distance he had to traverse, he set off at

an imprudent rate of walking, which greatly exhausted him before

he had scaled the first range of the green and low hills. He

was, moreover, surprised, on surmounting them, to find that a

large glacier, of whose existence, notwithstanding his previous

knowledge of the mountains, he had been absolutely ignorant, lay

between him and the source of the Golden River. He entered on it

with the boldness of a practiced mountaineer, yet he thought he

had never traversed so strange or so dangerous a glacier in his

life. The ice was excessively slippery, and out of all its

chasms came wild sounds of gushing water—not monotonous or low,

but changeful and loud, rising occasionally into drifting

passages of wild melody, then breaking off into short, melancholy

tones or sudden shrieks resembling those of human voices in

distress or pain. The ice was broken into thousands of confused

shapes, but none, Hans thought, like the ordinary forms of

splintered ice. There seemed a curious EXPRESSION about all

their outlines—a perpetual resemblance to living features,

distorted and scornful. Myriads of deceitful shadows and lurid

lights played and floated about and through the pale blue

pinnacles, dazzling and confusing the sight of the traveler,

while his ears grew dull and his head giddy with the constant

gush and roar of the concealed waters. These painful

circumstances increased upon him as he advanced; the ice crashed

and yawned into fresh chasms at his feet, tottering spires nodded

around him and fell thundering across his path; and though he had

repeatedly faced these dangers on the most terrific glaciers and

in the wildest weather, it was with a new and oppressive feeling

of panic terror that he leaped the last chasm and flung himself,

exhausted and shuddering, on the firm turf of the mountain.

 

He had been compelled to abandon his basket of food, which became

a perilous incumbrance on the glacier, and had now no means of

refreshing himself but by breaking off and eating some of the

pieces of ice. This, however, relieved his thirst; an hour’s

repose recruited his hardy frame, and with the indomitable spirit

of avarice he resumed his laborious journey.

 

His way now lay straight up a ridge of bare red rocks, without a

blade of grass to ease the foot or a projecting angle to afford

an inch of shade from the south sun. It was past noon and the

rays beat intensely upon the steep path, while the whole

atmosphere was motionless and penetrated with heat. Intense

thirst was soon added to the bodily fatigue with which Hans was

now afflicted; glance after glance he cast on the flask of water

which hung at his belt. “Three drops are enough,” at last thought

he; “I may, at least, cool my lips with it.”

 

He opened the flask and was raising it to his lips, when his eye

fell on an object lying on the rock beside him; he thought it

moved. It was a small dog, apparently in the last agony of

death from thirst. Its tongue was out, its jaws dry, its limbs

extended lifelessly, and a swarm of black ants were crawling

about its lips and throat. Its eye moved to the bottle which

Hans held in his hand. He raised it, drank, spurned the animal

with his foot, and passed on. And he did not know how it was,

but he thought that a strange shadow had suddenly come across the

blue sky.

 

The path became steeper and more rugged every moment, and the

high hill air, instead of refreshing him, seemed to throw his

blood into a fever. The noise of the hill cataracts sounded like

mockery in his ears; they were all distant, and his thirst

increased every moment. Another hour passed, and he again looked

down to the flask at his side; it was half empty, but there was

much more than three drops in it. He stopped to open it, and

again, as he did so, something moved in the path above him. It

was a fair child, stretched nearly lifeless on the rock, its

breast heaving with thirst, its eyes closed, and its lips parched

and burning. Hans eyed it deliberately, drank, and passed on.

And a dark gray cloud came over the sun, and long, snakelike

shadows crept up along the mountain sides. Hans struggled on.

The sun was sinking, but its descent seemed to bring no coolness;

the leaden height of the dead air pressed upon his brow and

heart, but the goal was near. He saw the cataract of the Golden

River springing from the hillside scarcely five hundred feet

above him. He paused for a moment to breathe, and sprang on to

complete his task.

 

At this instant a faint cry fell on his ear. He turned, and saw

a gray-haired old man extended on the rocks. His eyes were sunk,

his features deadly pale and gathered into an expression of

despair. “Water!” he stretched his arms to Hans, and cried

feebly, “Water! I am dying.”

 

“I have none,” replied Hans; “thou hast had thy share of life.”

He strode over the prostrate body and darted on. And a flash of

blue lightning rose out of the East, shaped like a sword; it

shook thrice over the whole heaven and left it dark with one

heavy, impenetrable shade. The sun was setting; it plunged

towards the horizon like a redhot ball. The roar of the Golden

River rose on Hans’s ear. He stood at the brink of the chasm

through which it ran. Its waves were filled with the red glory

of the sunset; they shook their crests like tongues of fire, and

flashes of bloody light gleamed along their foam. Their sound

came mightier and mightier on his senses; his brain grew giddy

with the prolonged thunder. Shuddering he drew the flask from

his girdle and hurled it into the center of the torrent. As he

did so, an icy chill shot through his limbs; he staggered,

shrieked, and fell. The waters closed over his cry, and the

moaning of the river rose wildly into the night as it gushed over

 

THE BLACK STONE